


Caller ID

by crazyginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Jim and Sherlock play pranks, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1250380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyginger/pseuds/crazyginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock should never have left his phone unattended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caller ID

Molly's having an atrocious day. Not only is she having to work overtime because her coworker called in sick at the last minute, but there's a ton of paperwork that was supposed to be filled out yesterday and wasn't. Her sick coworker won't be blamed for this, of course, because that wouldn't be _kind_. That's on top of the fact that the coffee maker's broken, she still has to buy cat food, and she's misplaced her umbrella on the rainiest day of the month.

Sherlock gets this from one look at her when she opens the door to the lab. He's careful, maybe even edging on polite, when he asks to see the skin samples and chemical solutions he'd been studying yesterday.

Sherlock analyzes samples and quietly conducts tests while Molly tears through the paperwork across the room. Though Sherlock hardly ever pays attention, he knows that he's never seen Molly like this before. She doesn't look up from the paperwork once, her eyes fixed to the pages unblinkingly as if willing them to disappear. She scrawls her signature on page after page, her pen flying across the paper with such speed and force that it sounds like the claws of some creature scrabbling against a door.

After a tense few minutes, Molly stands and heads for the door with the stack of papers tucked under her arm. With a sigh she throws open the door and leaves the room, her lab coat swirling behind her.

Sherlock glances up for a moment and then returns to his work. A serene layer of quiet spreads itself over the lab, allowing Sherlock to fully concentrate on his tests, but it's soon shattered.

Sherlock's phone, sitting on the table next to the microscope, lights up and begins to buzz. He has half a mind to ignore the call and continue with his work, but he lazily slides the phone closer with one finger.

When he sees Jim Moriarty's name on the screen he's surprised. He can't remember the last time Jim called; like Sherlock, Jim usually prefers to text. Sherlock can't imagine what Jim would be calling about, anyway, since they'd just seen each other yesterday and Jim had said he'd be away on business today.

Even then, Sherlock can't say he's not a tiny bit pleased.

He turns away from the microscope and picks up the phone. The corner of his lips quirks upward as he answers.

"Jim. I thought you were-"

A voice cuts him off. _Mycroft's_ voice.

"Confirm with whom you are speaking," Mycroft says, his tone cool and smooth.

Sherlock feels like the air has been suctioned out of his lungs. He's sure that his phone had said Jim, he's sure that he'd read it correctly - _oh_.

"I'll assume your silence indicates that you realize your mistake," Mycroft says. After a brief pause he continues. "I'll also assume that you know it would be an insult to both of our intellects to provide an excuse for this little mishap, brother dear. I'm quite pressed for time, however, so I will save my inquiry into the matter for a later time."

Part of Sherlock is amused, another part is frustrated. He finds it both hard to believe and totally plausible that Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, would do something so immature as to change the contacts in his phone. He should have known something like this would have happened; with all of Jim's visits to Baker Street, something was bound to go wrong in one way or another. This was probably the least harmful possibility, for which Sherlock was grateful, but still - how could he have fallen for this?

The crackling quiet on the other end of the line reminds Sherlock that Mycroft has ended his monologue and is waiting for a response. Sherlock sighs forcefully through his nose.

"Surely there must have been a point to this call," he says.

Mycroft begins to blither on about some favor he needs. With Mycroft, it's always a favor. Sherlock filters out most of what Mycroft is saying, catching a few words like _national importance,_ _security,_ and _please_ here and there. A majority of it is a steady, whining drone that goes unnoticed in the back of his head; his mind is already occupied with plotting the best course for revenge, and that's much more important than whatever it is that Mycroft needs. 

 

* * *

 

Jim leaves his flat to meet with a client shortly after breakfast. He's meeting with the client, a low-ranking government official, in a private office. Jim laughs when he's told this because private is _such_ a relative term.

Today he's masquerading as Mark Hawkins, fictitious agent of his criminal network. Sure, he could send an actual member of his web out, but too much behind-the-scenes work gets boring. It's good to get out and meet his clients now and then, even if they don't know they're meeting him.

He's played Hawkins before, gotten to know him, and he's comfortable in this character. Hawkins is a family man, sucked into the business of criminal dealings after his painting business failed when the economy hit a slow patch. He's hypothetically worked his way through the ranks of Moriarty's criminal network thanks to his cautious nature and keen eye for detail. He's careful in his dealings with clients and always on the lookout for signs of danger, the safety of his family being his number one priority. Even with that glaring weakness, however, he's quite successful at what he does. Well, he's better than some of Jim's other roles; Jim particularly likes playing Sam Roan, an earnest yet bumbling agent, but he wouldn't have done for today's job.

Jim enjoys these little acting exercises. To play any of these fabricated associates, even if it's only for the duration of a single meeting, is to step outside of himself and become somebody else. It's refreshing to transform, to assume a completely different identity with different motivations, fears, and hopes than his own.

His client is tall, blonde, and terrified. She's trying hard not to show her fear, but it seeps through the cracks and emerges in ways that she could never begin to control. Jim notices it in the slight irregularity of her breathing, the makeup that conceals a sleepless night, and her eyes. The eyes are what give her away, really. They're not flicking about, nor are they focused on Jim: they're stuck in a state of constant constrained motion, trying to glance toward the door before being reined back in. She knows not to look at the door, at least, to keep up appearances. Good. She's not _completely_ idiotic, then.

"Ms. Marinski," Jim says. He enters the room slowly, sizing the space up, and pretends to surreptitiously check his phone in a way that he knows she'll see anyway. "I hope you know that this meeting is entirely confidential."

Marinski, standing behind a desk, gestures to a chair with a mechanic movement of her arm. Jim stands beside the seat but doesn't take it, refusing to sit until she does.

"I'd like to know why Mr. Moriarty couldn't meet today," Marinski says. "I did say this was a matter of great importance." She's starting off boldly, then, trying to hide her fear under a layer of self-assertion and impudence. A brave effort.

"My employer did say to send his regrets for not being able to come," Jim says. He quite enjoys talking about himself as if he's not in the room.

Jim suddenly brings his fingers up to touch a deactivated earpiece. He tilts his head into his hand, eyes flickering between Marinski and the floor as he listens to imaginary dictations. This part's his favorite: intimidation from afar, the ability to see just how badly a few words can shake people.

"Additionally," Jim starts, slowly like he's repeating words as they're being said, "my employer would like you to know that he is loathe to work with egocentric politicians who have not yet realized that they are grossly misinformed of their importance. You may think your civic duty is a shield that will protect you from the consequences of your brash arrogance, but it will not protect your mother or your sister."

Jim pauses and raises his eyebrows in mock horror. Hawkins, after all, would be appalled by what he's going to say next. "Your mother resides at the Farm Lane Care Home, where she is visited by your sister on Tuesdays. Your sister works for the Daily Telegraph and takes the Underground to the office; she tends to stay at work overtime, but goes out with friends on Thursday nights. Shall I inform you of their regular haunts?"

Marinski seems to lose all blood in her face.

"But do go on," Jim says, lowering his hand. "My employer is very interested in what you have to say."

Marinski looks like she's either plucking up the courage to say something or about to cry. Just as she opens her mouth, Jim's phone begins to ring.

He feels it vibrate in his pocket a split second before the ringtone starts. He's already reaching for the phone when he hears it: it's a recording of his own voice, breathlessly moaning Sherlock's name.

Oh, that is _clever_.

The room is stiflingly silent save for the ringtone, which ricochets off the walls and around the room like a squash ball. With the ringtone comes the memory of Sherlock trailing his tongue across Jim's collarbone, digging his nails into Jim's back; he wonders how he hadn't noticed any type of recording device, but to his credit, he had been just a _tad_ distracted.

It's no surprise to see that it's Sherlock calling. Jim balances the phone in the palm of his hand, feeling his mouth contort into an expression torn between a smirk and a frown. He's pleasantly angry. It's inconvenient that it had to happen now, during business hours, but he's childishly thrilled that Sherlock had finally returned the favor. It had been _too_ long since his own little prank, and he'd been starting to wonder if Sherlock had forgotten. Of course he hadn't.

The smirk wins out over the frown. The _bastard -_ that wonderful, maddening, sneaky bastard. Jim's thumb hovers over the answer button as he glances at a stricken Marinski.

"Excuse me," Jim says, "but I've got to take this call."


End file.
